Thunder and Lightning
by slashbutterfly
Summary: After the war, Harry cannot live with his guilt and breaks ties with almost everyone, living in a Muggle neighbourhood alone - that is, until a dark and stormy night... AU, slash.


(A/N: Yay! Slashy angst, my favourite! And I don't know why there's a living centaur statue in his bathroom. There just is, okay?)

Thunder and Lightning

Harry Potter was walking along the street, head down and hands in pockets. Though this at first glance makes for a gloomy-looking picture, he was grinning from ear to ear, a fact which would have astonished any passers-by, as it was currently raining torrentially. Because of this, there were no fellow pedestrians, and few cars. Most people had hurried home, drawn their curtains and turned their TVs on to block out the ominous rumble of thunder overhead. No curtains, however, could block out the frequent blinding flashes of lightning.

Harry continued to grin manically, in spite of his soaked hair flopping across his face and obscuring his vision. The simple truth was that he loved thunderstorms. He had never feared them as many other people seemed to do for some reason. He loved the rain, the loud crashes of thunder, the bright flares lighting up the whole sky for an instant each time. To him thunderstorms were like a great film or a brilliant symphony, entertainment in themselves, and even better for being uncontrollable.

Spying the end of the road ahead, he sighed. He had done his best to delay this moment, dragging his heels along the pavement and dawdling all the way, but it had come at last. He could not bring himself to call it a home. Home signified somewhere you felt at ease, and looked forward to coming back to in the evenings. It conjured up images of cosy rooms lit by flickering fires and a family waiting behind its doors. But there were no fires and no family for him. He lived alone in his big old house on a Muggle street, in a Muggle neighbourhood. Few friends had his address and even fewer had ever visited him. Ron and Hermione came occasionally, and very seldom other members of the Weasley family. He knew that they did not blame him for Ginny's death – so many had died in that final battle – but that somehow made it even worse. If he did not exist there would have been no battle. Someone else would have done a much better job of getting rid of Voldemort, a lot quicker and with far fewer casualties. And underneath that obvious guilt there was another, a deeper sort he had never spoken of to anyone or even admitted to himself. Deep down he was glad for Ginny's death. That sounded horrific, and for that reason he could not tell anyone about it. But he knew that if she had lived there would have been the unspoken expectation that they would marry, have children and be another branch of the Weasley clan. She had loved him, he knew that. And he had loved her – just not in the way she wanted him to.

The Boy-Who-Lived was gay. The saviour of the wizarding world, idolised by so many who had never so much as seen him in real life, liked boys. He had blurted it out to Ron and Hermione one evening after too many glasses of Firewhisky (they called it celebrating – he called it drowning his sorrows) and they had accepted it, and never brought it up again. He still wasn't sure if they knew it wasn't just the drink talking. He hardly ever saw them any more. He hardly ever saw anyone. After the war he had transferred a small portion of his vast fortune into Muggle money and bought himself a large rambling mansion on the outskirts of a Muggle neighbourhood, with the vague idea that someday, not too far away, he might find someone to share it with. But even after two years that day had not come and he was getting used to being on his own.

In the midst of his mental remembering he had come to the towering wrought-iron gates that marked the boundary of his property and the beginning of the half-mile long drive leading to his house. These gates were protected with many charms, invisible to everyone, carefully keyed to allow only those few he trusted entrance. It was probably unnecessary – all his real enemies were either dead or in Azkaban – but old habits die hard. He was digging in the pocket of his trenchcoat, searching for the key to the gates, when he saw what looked like a heap of rags against the fence a little way down. He looked left and right before going to investigate; the old paranoia always resurfaced in unknown situations. As he got closer he saw to his horror that it was a person huddled over, presumably trying to gain a little shelter from the downpour from the trees that dangled their branches over the fence. He ran the last few steps and bent down without hesitation to try and discern the state of the figure. At first he couldn't even tell if they were still alive. He cleared his throat.

"Hello?"

At the sound of his voice the heap stirred almost imperceptibly. Encouraged, he put a hand out tentatively to touch what appeared to be his or her shoulder. Slowly, a head was raised and he found himself looking into the eyes of his old arch-enemy.

The shock of finding Draco half-dead outside his house sent him stumbling backwards and he fell over rather inelegantly, landing on his backside with a thud. Hastily, he got up and hurried back to the fence.

"Draco? Wha- what are you doing here?"

Draco appeared to be trying to pull himself upright. Mumbled phrases tumbled from his lips.

"I'm sorry – I didn't know this was your – I'll just go-"

The effort was too much for him and he sank back down to the ground. Trying to overcome his astonishment, Harry reached down and hauled him up by his arms.

"Come on. We've got to get you inside."

Even on his feet, Draco still cut a pathetic figure. Harry had no idea what his original garments had been but they had become a tattered mess of rags: probably why he had mistaken him for a pile of such at first glance. His silver-blond hair was grubby and drenched and hung like rats' tails over his face, sending little rivulets of water down his cheeks and forehead whenever he moved. And he was thin. Harry got the impression that he would be barely visible sideways on.

When he heard Harry's words the Malfoy sneer appeared on his face once again, a faint shadow of what it had been in their schooldays but still recognisable.

"I don't need your pity, Potter. I was just leaving anyway. If I'd known this was your place I wouldn't have come here."

The impressive defiance of this speech was somewhat diminished by the intermittent coughing, the hoarse delivery, and the fact that while trying to enact a swift turn and exit, he collapsed to the ground once again.

Harry sighed.

"It's not pity, Malfoy."

He didn't want to revert to surnames, but Draco seemed determined to keep it that way, and who was he to enforce his will on an obviously seriously ill man?

"I'm just trying to help. And I think it would be to your advantage if you came with me willingly. You and I both know that I could easily pick you up and take you inside whether you want me to or not, so it would save a lot of energy for both of us if you just let me. You're not going to survive out here much longer. It's your choice."

Draco stared up at him, the rebellion in his eyes already fading to be replaced by grudging concession.

"You're going to insist whatever I do, so I don't think I have much choice, Potter. Go ahead."

Bracing himself, Harry bent down and scooped him up of the ground, immediately worried at how little the other man weighed. It was not hard to carry him over to the gates, open them with wandless magic – the key was a formality, with so many Muggles about it paid to be careful – and once inside, having locked the gates in a similar fashion, Apparate both of them to the hallway. Normally he would have walked down the drive, enjoyed it even, especially in the weather. However, he didn't fancy carrying a grumpy, exhausted Draco Malfoy all that way, and it was so dark that even if there were Muggles around they couldn't possibly notice anything.

Draco perked up once inside, looking this way and that as if trying to take it all in. There was a lot to look at, Harry had to admit. The house had been sold with all its original furniture, which meant a lot of heavy mahogany and ornate decoration on everything. It came across as a little like a set from a costume drama, or possibly a film of _Dracula_, but Harry had to admit he liked it that way, a little dark. It gave him time to be gloomy when he wanted, which was most of the time.

He set his burden down on a velvet-seated chaise longue under strict instructions not to move and Apparated to the first-floor bathroom, where he spelled the taps to run a bath and searched the cupboards for some restorative potions. He quickly found what he was looking for and Apparated back downstairs, only to find Draco already on his feet, wandering around a little unsteadily inspecting various trinkets. He turned when he heard Harry's footsteps on the marble floor.

"Nice place you've got here, Potter."

Harry waited for the scathing remark, the well-timed insult, but none came. He put it down to exhaustion, not daring to hope that Draco Malfoy had finally learned how to be a decent human being. Clearing his throat a little awkwardly, he gestured to the stairs, his hands still full of various bottles.

"There's a bath running upstairs, if you want it – everything's in the bathroom."

As he waved his hands around, the potions jiggled and sloshed dangerously. He quickly put them down on a sideboard.

"Oh, and you might want these – you'll recognise them. Madame Pomfrey…"

He trailed off. Reminiscences of Hogwarts were still too painful for him to think about. Having Draco here was quite enough to think about for one evening.

Once again he waited to be cut down, but the forlorn figure simply stumbled over and peered at the bottles, selecting those he thought would be of use. Having made his pick, he passed Harry with what could have been a smile, and began to climb the stairs laboriously, every step clearly draining his energy. Halfway up he began coughing, each breath shaking his whole body, and soon afterwards he stopped completely to recover. Having watched him this far, Harry could not leave him to drag himself up the rest of the long flight. He took the steps two at a time, and put his arm round Malfoy's back, under his arms, and helped him up, rightly suspecting that any more Apparating would only worsen his condition.

Once in the bathroom he released his hold and walked to the door.

"Will you be okay here? Take as long as you want, it's no trouble. Just… here."

He conjured a small blue stone, glowing strangely, and handed it to Draco.

"Touch this when you're finished, and I'll come. The towels are over there. If there's anything you need, that'll answer your questions." He pointed to a statue in one corner of a centaur bearing a strange resemblance to Firenze, which waved and grinned at Draco. "Don't mind me. I won't look, I promise."

Draco simply stared, and turned to Harry, but he had gone, shutting the door behind him. He slowly began to get undressed, always keeping one eye on the centaur, which obligingly turned to face the wall.

*********************************************************************

Harry leant against the wall outside, heart pounding. He slid to the floor, leaning his head back, and clasping his hands around his knees. What impulse had driven him to look at the heap by his fence? Sure, it was better to find a living Draco than a dead one, but no Draco at all would have been much preferred. And it wasn't even as if he hated him any more. He had no energy left for hatred, no energy left for anything, much. He spend his time reading, reading Muggle books, immersing himself in a world that had never been his, where magic was still just a legend, and Voldemort's name meant nothing to anyone. Another person would complicate things. He'd have to stay for a while, of course. He wasn't well, and he needed to rest and recuperate. It didn't matter that they used to be enemies. None of that mattered any more. What did matter was that Harry was going to have to use spells that he hadn't used since that last battle, spells of healing, spells of rest. And he would have to remember.

He was so lost in thought that he did not notice when the door opened and Draco, wearing pyjamas he must have found in the airing cupboard, appeared. He hardly registered it when Draco sat down next to him and put his head on his shoulder sleepily. He only came to his senses when the centaur put his head round the door, shouted "Boo!", and disappeared back to his corner.

Jerking out of his trancelike state he inadvertently woke Draco, who had been snoozing peacefully on his shoulder. He blinked up at Harry, and said in a small voice, "I think I'd like to go to bed now, if you don't mind."

All the earlier aggression had vanished, to be replaced by a shy, hesitant Draco completely unfamiliar to Harry. In a daze, he got to his feet, helped Draco up, and led him to one of the many spare bedrooms. This was the only one on same corridor as his own, and Draco might need something in the night.

Entering the room, he cast a quick scourging spell to remove all dust that might have gathered there, and turned the lights on low. It was quite a nice room, actually, with one of the house's characteristic four-poster double beds, flock wallpaper and thick carpets, all in a rich maroon colour that complemented the dark wood panelling and bed frame. Draco, however, did not take the time to appreciate the décor, heading straight for the bed and diving under its warm covers. He was asleep almost at once. Harry crossed to the window and stood looking out for a moment. The storm seemed to be passing. He pulled the curtains closed and walked to the door, pausing on his way to look down on Draco. Strange, almost motherly feelings rose up inside him. He looked so vulnerable. But he quickly shook it off, and made his way to his own room to get some rest.

*********************************************************************

He was woken some hours later, not by the crashes of the storm (which had started up again), but by a tentative knocking at his door. He mumbled something that could have been "Come in!", and the door opened just enough to allow Draco inside. He looked terrified. Harry soon found out why, as the thunder roared outside. Draco winced, covered his ears and made a dive for the edge of the bed, where he curled up as if to protect himself. When the rumble had passed, he sat upright sheepishly, and turned to look at Harry, who was now sitting up in bed, regarding him strangely.

"I… I don't like the thunder."

Harry forced himself not to laugh. Draco Malfoy, son of the Death Eater Lucius Malfoy, afraid of a natural weather phenomenon? It soon became clear, however, that it was a serious phobia. The next blast made Draco tremble all over, and it was very obvious that he was extremely scared. But he certainly hadn't had that fear while they were at school; there had been many a thunderstorm, and he had never flinched.

Suddenly realisation dawned. There had been a violent storm on the night of the final battle. That, combined with the loud bangs of spells, and the shouts of the wounded and dying, would be enough to give anyone a fear of storms.

At once he leaned over to Draco, touching his shoulder lightly.

"Do you want to – I mean, you can – over here –"

The unformed question was drowned out again by the noise from outside, and Draco needed no invitation now. Shaking violently, he clambered into the bed beside Harry, resembling nothing so much as a small child clinging onto its mother in terror. And Harry did not mind in the slightest. He held Draco tightly to his chest, keeping him close. Eventually the storm faded, passed, and the blond-haired boy stopped shaking and was still.

For some time they were quite still together, half-sitting, half-lying in that awkward embrace while the world turned under them. It was Draco who spoke first. He sat up next to Harry, who immediately drew back his arms. A look of something like regret passed across Draco's face, and he began to speak in a stutter.

"I'm sorry – don't know – afraid of –"

In answer Harry put him arm around his shoulders, cradling him to him once more.

"It's okay. I know, Draco." The first name slipped out without a second thought, and he immediately tried to right it. "I mean, Malfoy –" Then the absurdity of the situation struck him, and he laughed softly under his breath. Here he was, arms around his old enemy, in bed together, and still on last-name terms?

"Draco."

The name tasted so sweet on his tongue; all the sweeter when its bearer looked up at him, smiled, and kissed him. His lips were a little chapped from the wind, but warm, and oddly comforting, and Harry found himself kissing him back gently but firmly, holding him closer until he was practically sitting on top of him. Draco broke the kiss, then, and looked down at him, still smiling. When he spoke, any trace of his hostile sarcasm was gone, to be replaced by a gentle, kind voice that Harry would never in his wildest dreams have associated with the youngest Malfoy.

"Harry." He smiled wider speaking his name, and kissed him swiftly and lightly before continuing.

"It strikes me that this wouldn't exactly be a comfortable position in which to sleep. That is, if you'd like me to stay. Or I'll go back to the other room –" Now it was his turn to become flustered, hesitant, unsure of himself. Harry's reply was simply to lie down fully, Draco still sitting on his waist. He smiled up at the silver-haired boy – man? This shifting of positions brought the smile back to Draco's face, and he lay down slowly beside him, one leg and one arm flung over Harry's body. It was comfortable, and warm. They turned to look at each other; two arch-enemies, face to face, the closest they had ever been. They kissed again, more seriously now, snuggled together and safe as houses.

It might have been Draco, or it might have been Harry, who decided that the kiss was just a little too passionate for bedtime. In the darkness it was hard to tell. Whoever it was pulled back, gently, and kissed the other's nose. "Got to save something for the morning, haven't we, now?" he said, and laughed gently. The other responded with only a "mmph" that indicated he was already half-asleep.

In the quiet darkness that followed the faintest whisper could be heard.

"Harry?"

"Yes?"

"I… I love you."

A pause, and then:

"Draco?"

"Yes?"

"I love you too."

And then nothing, but the barely audible snufflings of two peaceful sleepers.

(A/N: Any thoughts at all, really? I'm not sure whether I'll continue this or not – it sort of depends what people think; if enough people like it, and want me to carry on, I might do if I have an idea. Otherwise I'll leave it as a one-shot. Review? Pretty please?)


End file.
